


shape of a bird

by markiafc



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Birds, Character Study, Gen, Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27166874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/markiafc/pseuds/markiafc
Summary: There is always a bird, and there is always a door.
Relationships: Michael Shelley & The Spiral, Michael | The Distortion & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Michael | The Distortion & Michael Shelley
Kudos: 18





	shape of a bird

1.

That’s it, Michael Shelley. The paper is thinner than most and collects creases like a stowaway for scars, it is the perfect component for our construction. Take the corner between your thumb and forefinger, gold on one face and milky white on the other, and bend it over itself. The angles were each cut matching so find the polar piece and push them into a kiss. Don’t let them part. Don’t let them breathe.

Look, Michael Shelley. Push the entirety of their bodies together until they are flat and faultless triangles; now gold is gleaming skin, exposed, and colourless contents lie beneath in a curious vacuum of feet to head completely pressed together. There is one less corner than before, you folded it away. What wonderful work.

Watch carefully, Michael Shelley. Take a new corner and do it over. This time, three corners will stay three because transformations are sometimes imperceptible steps up a long staircase. There will be more slotting and bending and opening the skin for changes more creative than the last. Follow the steps. Crafting is fun.

And remember, Michael Shelley. You wish to build a bird. You know what a birdie is, don’t you? So come, make me a bird. Where is the head that loves to sing, where is the body that loves to travel. Where are the talons that love to eat and where are the feathers that love to shimmer under the sun. Where is the birdie that was promised, where is the nest that was not. Where? Where, where, where?

Oh. There you are. I found you, birdie. 

Hello. Be afraid.

2.

Eat it, Michael Shelley. It doesn’t look like a bird. Eat it. It doesn’t move like a bird. Eat it. It won’t taste like a bird either. Eat it.

It is not a bird. I am not you. You do not have a mouth. 

Eat it. Eat it now. 

3.

Michael does not want to eat the Archivist, no, not at all. It wants to see, it wants to — hah! — _watch_ him _._ He has skin like the hardcover of a book, thick and tender, and labeled with clear titles; a name for the self, a name for his affiliations, a name for his publisher. The man is a monster of markings and to peel the shell back is to make Michael recoil. Such sense and senselessness in one being all at once, a curious thing, a dangerous thing. A doomed thing.

 _Why,_ Michael wants to ask. _Why try?_

And the terrible covers of the Archivist open up in an arc of paper scrawled in ink and blood, fluttering in a wind that is fighting breath and the sound is the rasping gasps of a man who doesn’t know how to die. There is an answer unfurling out beneath Michael’s nose. But it chooses not to read. It wouldn’t understand the words so the effort would be pointless to begin with. The Archivist knows this, of course. But he chose to present his answer anyway. Funny. That’s funny.

The Archivist has the edge of a page pinched between his thumb and forefinger. The page was never there before. It was certainly not one approved by his certified publisher.

 _Where did this come from,_ The Archivist asks, sharpening the question and shooting it Michael’s way as if it had the answers. That’s funny too.

 _I think you know,_ Michael does say.

 _That’s not funny._ Says him. _I don’t know, I don’t know!_ But he does know, doesn't he? Why _won’t people just tell me things!_

Poor, poor Archivist. It’s alright. You don’t know. You truly don’t know. That’s good. There’s no need to fret. You are a book with paper plentiful whose design is to never end, so it’s simple: make more pages, for yourself and no one else. Take the trees, take the forests, take the continents, take what you want and even the unwanted. But the Archivist only wants what he needs. That’s good too.

Most important of all: the Archivist is not a bird. 

That’s very, _very_ good. That is why Michael thinks he can win.

4.

Gold; tumbling down in delicate whorls, flooding on shoulders and spilling down the arms. It does not reach the hands as the hands are not. But that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. There is gold pouring down the cliff and it catches the light in fluttering lashes and a rippling laugh. There is gold swaying in the shining mirrors, singing and screaming and the shell shatters even when the song does not stop. 

The melody is too beauteous to die.

5.

But oh my. Oh my, my, _my,_ Michael _._ There is a door. It is a new door and it is locked. For privacy’s sake and for losing’s sake, see. I found you, birdie. That means there is something in you to find. That means there is something about you. That means there is something in you that was not there before. 

Here is another piece. It is new. It is a slice of paper fresh off some person’s face. It is the perfect component for construction. Take the corner between your thumb and forefinger, and fold, fold, fold away. Arts is a joy and crafts is a thrill. Gold tastes so good, it tastes far better than a book. Do be polite and close the door on your way out. Thank you. 

Now we are not alone. I don’t have eyes. You don’t have a mouth.

Make me anew, bird.

I want to say hello.


End file.
